


the calm before the storm

by undead_bunniez



Category: Donnie Darko (2001)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dissociation, Gen, Hallucinations, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29405604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undead_bunniez/pseuds/undead_bunniez
Summary: "The uncertainty owns him now, and he guesses he’s alright with that. Better to belong to something than nothing at all, even if the something is its own form of nothingness."© undead_bunniez 2021
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	the calm before the storm

A thick grey settles over Middlesex that evening, and Donnie knows it’s meant for him. He’s pretty sure no one else can see it rolling down the well-paved streets, dynamic tendrils like heavy smoke. No one’s mentioned it so he doesn’t either, just watches it through the window. It almost looks sentient.

He stares blankly for an indeterminate amount of time, losing himself in his own internal haze. The fog bank pushes forward until the manicured lawn outside his window is barely there, then not at all. He’s floating. Just Donnie in his newly-repaired bedroom, suspended alone in the vast milky grey of spacetime, no Middlesex to be seen.

This bizarre occurrence really isn’t strange at all in the face of everything else that’s been happening recently. It’s almost explainable, something someone other than Donnie might see. Fog exists, and it’s October, after all. The setup is believable, yet he knows it isn’t happening. He can feel it, feel the tension between the reality outside his head and the one within it. It would almost be disappointing if he were wrong, if this weren’t something Frank did just for him.

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he knows better than to question it too much. He opts to sit back and let things happen - apathy becomes second nature when asking questions never eases the fear.

Whatever the fuck has been happening in his world, the fog rolling in just adds to the uncertainty that fills him up like a helium balloon. The more he asks questions and searches for answers, the further and further he floats from the world below him.

The uncertainty owns him now, and he guesses he’s alright with that. Better to belong to something than nothing at all, even if the something is its own form of nothingness.

He thinks Dr. Thurman would ask something profoundly stupid if he tried to explain it to her. She gets paid $200 an hour to do precisely jack shit, just prescribe bullshit pills and make him feel like he’s crazy. Granted, he’s beginning to accept that that’s probably the truth. The puzzle pieces aren’t supposed to fit this well, not for sane people.

The world outside his window has vanished totally. Donnie can almost see the graphite smudges on the blank canvas that is the suburban hellhole he lives in.

The haze reminds him of afternoons spent getting faded at the empty lot by Grandma Death’s house. He doesn’t want to think about that right now - it just makes him want to go smoke, get nice and high and _numb_ , but he doesn’t have any pot. Fuck.

So, he just floats in his thoughts. Detachment in any form is nice, though substances are preferable to point-blank dissociation.

Ironically, he wishes he was more confused. _The Philosophy of Time Travel_ has been burning holes in his brain and his grasp on reality since he started reading it - the things it describes… well, he can’t help but feel sure it’s not a work of fiction. He _is_ sure, he has to be. He’s seen everything it describes, for god’s sake. He asks Dr. Monnitoff what he can, but it’s hard to ask the right questions and figure this shit out without sounding like a total nutcase.

Convincing himself he’s not crazy is nearly impossible. Especially when Frank is there.

He likes Frank. More than that, he likes the sense of purpose, and the illusion of some sort of fucked up companionship. He’s not much of a fan of the dingy bunny suit or the sleepwalking, but it’s not like it bothers him, not really. Not much does, especially about Frank. He’s more curious than upset or scared.

Donnie suddenly feels solid, aware. He’s been thinking for too long, and his itch for something chemical is only growing the longer he neglects it. A toke, or a drink of something strong. He doesn’t need it, but it might relieve the pressure in his head. Either that or put him to sleep, something he never gets enough of now. Either way’s a win, so he goes looking.

Of course there’s liquor in the liquor cabinet. Vodka will absolutely do - he grabs the bottle and doesn’t stop for a glass. He’s not worried about his parents knowing he took it. There’s not much they can do to him - he can’t drive and doesn’t really go anywhere - though he knows they wouldn’t try, anyway. They're not the punishment type. They’d probably just tell Dr. Thurman, and that’d almost certainly be the least of her concerns.

When he lifts the glass rim to his lips and tilts his head back, the sloshing sound is grounding. So is the burn as he gulps it down, the sensation of it travelling down his throat. He smiles at that. It’s something tangible, something real for him to hang on to.

He gets lost in the mirror a lot. Never means to, but he has a habit of catching himself in reflections, trying to figure himself out. Every time he catches his own eye it’s like meeting himself for the first time.

Sometimes Frank will be there with him, to show him something or explain a part of the plan, but sometimes he’s just left making eye contact with his reflection, dead-eyed and expressionless.

Donnie blinks slowly, and he realizes he’s in the bathroom, staring at himself. Huh. How he got there is of no concern to him. He has a hard enough time placing things in sequential order and accounting for his entire day when he’s sober, let alone a number of swigs into a bottle of his parents’ vodka.

He’s glaring at himself again, that Kubrick stare changing nothing at all. Still Donnie, still apathetic at best, still getting drunk to avoid… what? _Avoid?_ No, he’s just trying to dull it down. Make the gloom a little more palatable, a little sharper and warmer.

He smirks at his reflection, takes another gulp from the bottle, and sets it on the counter.

He takes his pills out of the medicine cabinet and washes one down with a little water sipped straight from the faucet. Some of it gets on his face. He doesn’t bother to wipe it away.

The room is more than a little slanted and the inside of his skull feels warm and fuzzy, but Donnie’s used to dealing with bizarre perceptions of reality. He figures he probably walks about the same whether he’s shitfaced or sober, and a harsh chuckle forces its way out of him as he grasps the bottle by the neck and returns to his bedroom.

He sits on his bed and gets comfortable against the pillows. Sporadic sips break up what otherwise is a hazy, comfortable silence, staring at the absolute nothing outside his window.


End file.
